


No Place Like Home

by Whreflections



Series: Escort!Chris Verse [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Full Shift Werewolves, M/M, Prostitute Chris Argent, Werewolves Age Differently, the Peter/Paige is briefly referenced and in the past
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-28 15:04:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20780564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whreflections/pseuds/Whreflections
Summary: Like most wolves, Peter grew up knowing he'd know his mate by scent.  That didn't stop him from falling in love with someone who wasn't his mate- or from being sure when he lost her that he might never find anyone else.  If he did, he knew that it would surprise him- he just didn't realize quite how unexpected it would be.He absolutely didn't realize that it wouldn't be like it is in the movies, or even like it was for his mother.  Just because you find your mate doesn't mean you get to keep them, not unless they decide they want to be kept.(or, 5 times Chris smelled like Peter's, and 1 time he smelled like home and his in more ways than Peter would have ever expected)





	No Place Like Home

**Author's Note:**

> Write Peter and Chris meeting and the immediate aftermath of the prior fic as a 5 times fic, I said. It'll be cute, I said. Probably around 1,000 words each chapter, I said. Should be done within a week. 
> 
> Over a month later, here's 6,000 words and there isn't even proper porn. (Though, I decided that was part of the hangup with finishing this chapter, is that it worked better without delving off too far into the porn. There will, within this story, e porn, I promise, lol)
> 
> I really hope you guys enjoy this <3 <3 It's been a bear to write, but I think (as of right this moment, at least) that I like how it came out.

_01._

Peter wasn’t looking for a prostitute. 

He wasn’t looking for drugs, either, which he knew the minute he caught the scent would be the second thing Talia asked once he told her where he’d been when the breeze caught his attention. He wasn’t looking for anything; he’d been to a gallery downtown and he was taking the long route back to his apartment because he missed walks in the woods, and moonlight on his skin. 

It wasn’t the same as being at home; it never could be. He had thought that keeping to the same territory within Santo Dragón would make it start to feel like home and tie him to new ground, but he’d been there four years and it hadn’t happened. He liked his apartment, and he liked the nightlife, sometimes, but on the whole he felt like a visitor on an extended vacation, not an alpha branching out to build a territory for himself. 

Walking on broken glass past weeds and bottles and needles was nothing like the preserve back in Beacon Hills—even when the street art was beautiful, even when a moment caught his eye and made him wish he’d brought his camera. It wasn’t the same, but his skin was itching for something, and it was better than nothing. 

It was chill enough that he’d worn his leather jacket, warm enough that the shirt he wore under it was thin. It was a time of year for settling in, though he didn’t feel settled, and he didn’t want to move. His mind was too full; it made him distracted—and that didn’t matter so much, really, because even though he was alone, he was an alpha walking alone. No supernatural creature in their right mind would bother him, and any human who tried would realize their mistake soon enough. 

With his distraction and the heavy press of the city and the full moon coming, it was, really, a miracle that he noticed the scent at all. It was enough to make a man believe in fate, because fall in the city didn’t smell like summer in the woods—without that wide difference, he might never have noticed the scent at all. One moment, it was all piss and garbage and stagnant water, and the next with the curl of a breeze around the corner there was a scent that took him back to the beech tree in the clearing, the perfume of raspberries laid over the sweet sharp smell of tall grass. Clear water, from the nymph’s spring, and the green swell of undergrowth, the gentle rot of ground cover choked out by the canopy above.

Just for a moment, a breath, it smelled like home—and if he’d been at home, he never would have noticed it. It was the stark difference that gave him clarity, that made him _sure_. Even if he’d been in a space with just a little green, he might have doubted his own senses. There on the street, he paused and took a breath again to check, catching it just like before—subtle and creeping, distanced, but undeniably there. 

He should have known then, perhaps, that what followed wouldn’t be easy—the realization alone wasn’t easy. There was an undeniable swell of joy and triumph and the need to _claim_ so strong he could taste it in the back of this throat, but it was diluted by knife sharp sorrow, a swift slice just under his ribs with the drop in his stomach.

No one had ever smelled like this, to him; not even the woman he’d loved more than he’d ever loved anything. It didn’t seem fair—but nothing with Paige had been fair. It was a strange wave of fresh mourning, the realization that even if she had lived, the future he could have had with her would have always been different. Not less; he couldn’t bring himself to think of her as _less_ than anyone, but he couldn’t deny, now, that finding her wasn’t fate. She had been his by choice, and that mattered, but they were never meant to be. Maybe if they had been, the bite would have taken. Maybe if he hadn’t been so desperate to keep what wasn’t his, she never would have been attacked in the first place, never would have been in danger—maybe if he hadn’t been so selfish, she’d still be alive.

While he had her, while he was young and in love, it had been easy to say he didn’t care if she could bond with him—he had nothing to compare the experience with. He’d never felt his wolf twist in his chest the way it was on the street with the scent of his mate calling him, the urge to run and chase and _catch_ so compelling that his eyes flashed red.

He had expected that he would fall in love again, eventually, but he had never put much stock in finding a mate—it seemed too improbable, the world too vast. Of all the places he might have caught the scent of his mate, wafting out from a filthy alley would have been the furthest from his mind. Once he caught the scent, though, there was no turning back—there was no desire in him for it, even if the thought had crossed his mind, he would have dismissed it. Somewhere nearby was someone so ideal for him that his senses could only register them as _home_. He could no more have turned away from that than lock himself away from the moon—moreso with the next deep draw of the scent’s direction he took, filling his lungs. 

They were human, but he could smell an unfamiliar wolf layered against their scent, the wild tang of the stranger sharp and unpleasant. These were far from safe streets—it would be easy for a human to get in trouble here, and possible they may not be found by anyone who could get them out of it. If they were from this part of town he’d be less concerned, but there were too many unknowns. They might be with a friend; they might be in danger. The uncertainty made him rigid with tension, a low rumble rising in his chest, deep and unsettled.

Nearby, he could hear a rat that had overheard squealing in distress, scuttling away from a predator too large to oppose. 

Without bothering to retract his claws that had lengthened, Peter took off after the scent and moved quickly, his neck stretching here and there to gauge his direction and the wind. His nose led him off his own course, turning west and closer to the water, down a disused side street with cracked pavement and still functioning streetlights. They buzzed and flickered, highlighting shop windows with bars to protect the glass, brown paper and newsprint covering sections where it hadn’t worked. The jagged edges of the glass stuck out against the feeble support like starbursts, glittering and glinting more quickly for his quick pace. 

The sounds hit him before the scent of sex—a rough and constant growl from the wolf, the wet slide of bodies. Peter picked up his pace, only to draw up short when they came into view in the dim light of a sheltered alcove between a bookstore and a pawn shop. 

The werewolf stood against the wall, his jeans up but open, one hand on the nape of a boy on the ground between his legs. His mouth was stretched obscenely wide; Peter could hear the faint gag and click of his throat as he tried to swallow, smell the tension and stress bleeding into his scent—a scent laced with clear water, and the tang of raspberries. There would be other notes to it when Peter learned the nuances, when they knew each other, and Peter had had the time to gather details. 

There would be time for it, but in the moment, Peter had the scent of pack and home and _mate_ flooding against the roof of his mouth, mingling with stress and sex and lust from a wolf who had no claim. That he would dare to touch what was Peter’s would have been maddening enough—that he was _hurting_ him was unthinkable. 

The red surged back to Peter’s eyes, his roar loud enough to hurt his throat. It reverberated between the buildings, gathering strength—if he hadn’t been so full of rage, it would have been more comical to see the wolf jump and stagger to the side, his beta eyes flashing gold in response without his consent or intent. He looked petrified, for half a second, and the vindictive pleasure of it was so sharp Peter could feel it like ice in his gut. 

Stumbling at the entrance to the alcove, the wolf was still trying to shove his dick back in his pants when Peter caught up to him. He wasn’t a match for Peter, wouldn’t have been even if Peter hadn’t been an alpha. It was nothing to catch him by the throat, nothing to shove him back until his body hit an old concrete planter, tipping it over to spill rainwater and cigarette butts onto the sidewalk. 

Peter growled, low and thick, for the wolf’s ears only. He could hear the boy getting to his feet in the alley, moving back from the danger. “I could skin you,” he said, the truth of it pulsing hot at his temples. His eyes were still red; his fangs sharp. It would take no effort at all to lean forward and bite, to draw blood. It took effort to _keep_ himself from it. 

“He didn’t— He said he didn’t have a fucking pack; he’s always alone. If he lied to me that’s between the two of you—“ The beta’s voice wheezed into silence, spurred by the pressure of Peter’s palm against his throat. If the most pressing matter hadn’t been the boy, he wouldn’t have eased up.

“Do I look like I care what he said?”

“You don’t, but you should.” The boy’s voice was startlingly clear and sharp, unwavering. He didn’t sound afraid, only a little out of breath. “This is none of your business.”

“He was assaulting you; that’s anyone’s business—“

“No, he wasn’t. Whatever fucked up savior complex you have, I didn’t ask for your help and I don’t need it.”

“_Savior complex_?” Peter’s grip wavered, too incredulous to keep a tight hold. The beta took the opportunity to snarl and swat hard at his arm, tearing through the leather of his jacket. His answering snarl was all indignation, his own slap against the beta’s cheek far harder. He’d drawn blood, cut nearly clear through his cheek—it had, honestly, been a sharper blow than he’d meant to give, but his wolf was too close to the surface for greater restraint. It would have been hard enough this close to the full moon without the circumstances to pull hard on his instincts, without the boy’s startling reaction to unsettle him. 

The sudden roil of fear from the wolf he’d captured was still sickly satisfying, even as Peter stepped back, giving him a clear exit. He gestured behind him with his clean right hand, and cleaned his bloodied left against his jeans. The scrape of his claws against the denim was loud alongside their heavy breathing. “Go. Don’t turn around in case I change my mind.”

Peter watched after him until his footsteps were distant, until the smell of his fear was fading. By the time he looked back to the boy in the alley, his eyes were human again. 

Peter didn’t have anything to be sorry for—at least, that was the opinion of the overriding, bullheaded rage that had barely dimmed—but underneath his certainty, he could feel the faintest flicker of shame. It wasn’t pleasant. The scent of his mate’s anger wasn’t pleasant either, burning the roof of his mouth like smoke. He swallowed against it, grimacing. 

“I’ll assume you aren’t going to thank me.”

“Fuck off,” he said, sharp and hard and still unafraid. “You had no right. I wasn’t asking for help—“

“You weren’t enjoying yourself, either; you can’t lie to me about that. _He_ might not have noticed, but you were stressed. I could smell it, I know.” It had faded—and it hadn’t been overly strong, if he was honest—but he hadn’t imagined it.

“Unrelated, and _also_ none of your business!” The boy’s voice rose, and despite everything, Peter couldn’t help but admire him for it. He was a stranger, and an alpha. It had been done in his defense, but the boy had just seen Peter hurt someone. Most werewolves wouldn’t have been bold enough to stick around, and call him out, let alone most humans—but then, anyone suitable to be his mate wouldn’t react to him like most humans. That he was brave should have come as no shock.

“I don’t owe you a fucking thing; I don’t have to explain myself to you—but this has been a shitty week and I needed that money; I was counting on it. You want to pat yourself on the back for screwing me out of getting paid? Be my guest.” He spread his hands, a mockery of respect. 

From just about anyone else, it would have set Peter’s temper on edge. 

The scent he’d caught from a distance was so much stronger, close to the source. Clean, and clear, and far more out of place than the boy before him looked, his ripped jeans as tight as the shirt that hugged his chest. There was a strip of skin exposed above his hips—looking at it, Peter could feel his mouth go dry. He’d never been interested in all that many men, but then, he’d never met one that looked like _that_, and smelled like his.

“I’m not going to apologize for saving your skin,” Peter said, even though it wasn’t what he’d most wanted to say, even though he was starting to suspect it wasn’t true. “It’s a dangerous enough job if you’re working out of an agency and paying attention, but out here, picking up anyone? If you don’t pay attention to who you’re picking up—“

“I know exactly who I picked up. Beta werewolf, bitten; his name is Brent. He works construction; he lives in a shit apartment that I haven’t let him take me to, even though he’s not that sketchy, because I don’t know enough about the rest of the building and I _am_ that careful. If you and your ego had stayed out of it—“

“Then he might have lost control, and _ripped your throat out_. The moon is almost full—“

“And for that, werewolves pay extra. I didn’t have any illusions about what he was; don’t patronize. You don’t know a thing about me.” Stepping closer, the boy drew a knife from a sheath behind his back with a move so smooth Peter barely caught the motion. The edge of the blade gleamed when it caught the light, diamond sharp and wet—the scent of wolfsbane flooded his nose. The truth impressed him, utterly unexpected. To hide the scent, the sheath would have been charmed—he had skill enough to do it himself, he’d inherited the set, or he’d not long ago had far more money than Peter would have ever expected of anyone selling their ass on the street.

“Brent was harmless, and he was becoming a regular—“ the boy said, knife still extended as he came closer. The point was a good two feet from touching, but it aimed unerringly at Peter’s chin. “He’s loud; he can get possessive and no, he doesn’t have rock solid control of his shift but if he got out of hand, I could have probably snapped him out of it—and if I couldn’t, this could have done it for me.”

“Assuming you know how to use it,” Peter said, though there didn’t appear to be any doubt. His hold was solid, even his stance. Peter could counter if he lunged, but there was an intensity of movement to the kid that told Peter _he_ could have countered, too, if Peter moved on him. 

“Do I look like I don’t, to you?”

“Not particularly, no. If I had to guess, you look more like a hunter than a hooker—you aren’t out here working double duty, are you?”

With a huff, the boy snapped the knife back into place as quickly as he’d whipped it out. “No, I’m not, but I can take care of myself. Anyone who assumes I can’t and tries to take advantage of that won’t like what they find out.” 

“Is that right?” It would have been easy to write his certainty off as the arrogance of youth, if Peter hadn’t seen him move. All jokes aside, he’d moved like a hunter, not like a human who’d never learned how to hold himself like a predator. Not like prey. Peter stepped back to give him space, his arms crossing. The damaged strips of his jacket hung down, irritating him. He could afford another one, but he’d _liked_ this one. “Just how old are you?”

“Older than you’d like to hear if you’re a creep.”

“I’m not a creep.”

“That remains to be seen.” For half a second, the barest smile flicked at the corner of his mouth, there and gone. Too quick to hold, and yet it had ticked Peter’s heart rate up. “Old enough for a license, but I don’t have one yet. I’m working on it. Gotta have money to make money.”

Old enough for a license to get a job at a legitimate escort service meant he was 18, at least—he looked younger, but it wasn’t all Peter’s imagination, then, that he held himself more like a man. If he was telling the truth, that was—and Peter had heard no lie in him, only an increasingly steady heart rate. 

“You haven’t been able to afford the license.” 

“I’m human; it’s not subsidized.” That much, Peter could certainly understand, though he hadn’t thought of it initially. He never meant to, but it was easy to forget, sometimes, that not everyone could go their family for reserves—not everyone had the luxury of savings and history behind them. If the kid had been a siren or an incubus, he’d have had no trouble applying for a license. As a human, with no biological predisposition to this profession, he was welcome to enter it, but he’d be paying for the right. If he didn’t, he had this to look forward to—alleys and inconsistency and the constant threat of being fined for operating without a license he couldn’t afford. 

“That’s bullshit.” It was true, and especially worth saying it to see something soften around his mate’s edges, a barely perceptible shift in his shoulders. “And it’s why you needed the money tonight, isn’t it?”

“Not really. Tonight was rent.” He sighed, his hands shoving into his pockets. The movement nudged his jeans down a little further. “Look, it’s fine. You were just—I mean you were an ass, but I get that it wasn’t intentional.”

“Being an ass is just my natural state?”

“Something like that, yeah.” The boy’s smile was real, then, reaching all the way to his stunning eyes. The heat of it was heavy in Peter’s gut—a pressure that increased when the kid hesitated, then continued. “It’s okay, really. Just a misunderstanding.”

“It was, but I should have handled it differently.” He didn’t, in all honesty, regret slashing the beta’s face and driving him off, but Chris didn’t have to know that. He regretted upsetting him; that was enough. 

“Yeah, you should have, but it’s done now. Now you know if we run into each other again, you don’t have to worry about me.”

Reflexive, Peter’s arms uncurled, stopping just shy of reaching for him. It had sounded like an exit, like he’d start to walk away. Peter wasn’t read y for that; he certainly wasn’t ready to be hearing the word _if_ in association with seeing him again. He had to; it wasn’t an option. “Look…” Peter hesitated, giving the boy an opening. 

The question in the lift of his eyebrows was clear enough, it seemed. “Christopher.”

It was ordinary, and sounded unusual, if only because it was his. “Christopher.” His name tasted good on Peter’s tongue, sharp and crisp and right. He liked the sound; he liked the swell in the scent of mate and home when a breeze sifted between the buildings, stirring the air. Peter was, he knew, absolutely in a situation with no easy answers, and no exit—and still. He had the weight of his mate’s name in his mouth for the first time, the swirl of his scent on the air. He could imagine what it would be like in a closed in room, filling his lungs. “I cost you money. Let me make it up to you.”

It both was and wasn’t what he wanted. If it’d been welcome, his wolf would have been happy to claim Christopher right there. Having sex with him with only the barest illusion of possession wouldn’t stake any claim, and it wouldn’t slake his hunger. 

It might be a high; it might hurt. It was, most likely, going to be a combination of both. 

Chris appraised him, a long and searching look. His eyes were so blue; Peter could only imagine how they’d look in daylight, how brilliantly they’d catch the early morning sun. 

“I don’t know a damn thing about you—other than what I’ve seen this evening, and that hasn’t been the most promising introduction.”

“Maybe not, but you’re not afraid of me—and you shouldn’t be; I’m not dangerous. Not to you.” Taking a chance, Peter reached into his coat, and pulled out his wallet, wordlessly ignored the boy’s slight twitch toward his knife and let it hang open, exposing his driver’s license, and his werewolf ID. “I’m Peter Hale. Go ahead, take a picture of it if you want. I’m not planning to drag you off and stuff your body in a trash can. I didn’t plan this at all.”

“Yeah, I gathered that much when you charged in and scared off my client.” For all his obvious curiosity, Christopher didn’t step forward to take the wallet. He only stared, like he could pull off a layer of skin and see intent underneath it. “Say I considered it, what did you have in mind?”

\-------

The hotel room must have been the nicest room Christopher had seen in quite a while, but he didn’t waste time eyeing much of it—even his shock was quick and hidden, just an extra blink at the number of pillows on the bed, and the existence of a sleek kitchen. 

His palm skimmed over the marble countertop, his eyes still roving. From the shift in his stance and the tension Peter could smell on him, Peter would have been willing to bet he was planning his escape if he needed to jam that clever knife of his into Peter’s jugular. 

Peter laid the money he’d stopped to get after they’d made their separate travel arrangements in an envelope down on the counter, sliding it forward with enough force that it stopped just short of Chris’ fingers. “$550,” he said, his hand held up to stop the protest when Christopher’s eyes snapped up to meet his. “I know; it’s more than we agreed on, but it’s a tip. I’m the one who ruined your plans; I owe you. Just take it.”

Christopher lifted the envelope, thumbed it open, and counted it—twice, if the faint whispers under his breath were anything to go by. Peter was far from put off, but it did teach him something—wherever this kid had come from, no one had taught him the etiquette of what he was doing. He was forging his own path, learning as he went, full of enough confidence to carry him over more than a few hurdles. 

He settled it back onto the counter, and leaned with both hands. Even the stretch of muscle in his arms looked tempting. 

“Did you give some thought to what you want?”

He had, in fact. In answer—or in lieu of one—Peter drew closer, coming around the end of counter, and stepping up into Christopher’s space. Like he’d known it would, the scent here in a closed off room was so strong it made his jaw ache. 

His hands pressed to the counter on either side of Christopher’s, his chin tipping up to bare his throat—ostensibly it was to look back at him, but Peter didn’t doubt he knew damn well what it would do to him. His breath hitched, a ragged growl simmering in his chest as he pressed his face into the crook of Christopher’s neck. He smelled so sharp and sweet and clean; his mouth was open to taste before he could help himself, though he stopped after the barest brush of teeth along his mate’s neck.

“Is this alright?”

“It’s alright. I don’t have a pack; scent me as much as you want.”

To keep from correcting him, Peter pressed closer and bit down, the blunt edges of his human teeth digging in hard enough to bruise, hard enough that Christopher’s heart sped up, his breath going heavy. Hard enough that when he dragged his tongue over the mark he could smell blood just under the surface, feel the shudder in his body where Peter’s chest pressed against his back. 

“That’s what you want, huh? You want to mark me up before you get me on my hands and knees?” he asked it breathless, without fear. Almost as if he were enjoying himself—and maybe he was. Peter could hear no lie in him; the acrid edge of stress he’d smelled on him in the street was gone. 

“I didn’t say anything about getting you on your hands and knees; you assumed,” Peter murmured, shifting his angle to nuzzle up Christopher’s throat, to the nape of his neck. The scrape of his stubble there had Chris dropping his head, beautiful and easy submission that made Peter’s dick ache. “Maybe I want to fuck you right here.”

“Maybe you do, but alphas are predictable. If we do this here, you’ll want me later on my hands and knees.”

“That’s a bit stereotypical, isn’t it? Are you this mouthy with all your clients?”

“Only one, so far. I did tell you to fuck off. If that didn’t put you off, I don’t think a little honest backtalk’s gonna do it.” 

“You’re not right all the time,” Peter said. As close as they were already, he could feel the added press of Christopher’s body when he breathed deep. The swell of his ass pressed back against his cock, teasing with the arch of his spine. 

“No one is, but I’m right about you. You want to mount me; you wanted to in the alley.” With a shift of his hands, he slipped them under Peter’s like they belonged, like the fierce curl of Peter’s fingers entangling with his was normal. 

There was no denying he was good at this—the tilt of his throat was everything Peter’s wolf wanted, as enticing to his instincts as the cant of his hips. The near smug look in Chris’ eyes when he looked back over his shoulder shouldn’t have made it even better, but Peter could feel the pulse in his cock, the wash of heat down his chest. “You do want to mount me, don’t you?”

It would have been bad enough if that’s all it was, but he could feel the tug toward what felt like a bottomless pit opening behind his ribs, a rough and desperate yawning ache. He was in trouble; there could be no doubt. He was in trouble, and he wouldn’t have taken it back for the world. 

\-------

From the bed, Peter watched Chris pulling on his pants. The scars on his back flashed white in the lamp light, thin and long—a sharp knife, maybe. They were too precise for claws. Peter had felt out their length and number while they fucked last night, first in the kitchen, then the bed. He’d counted again when Chris fell asleep against his chest, exhausted, face tucked in against Peter’s throat like he trusted him. 

How much was an illusion he didn’t know, but the 32 scars on his back were concrete. He might not have needed Peter’s protection last night, but someone had hurt him. Repeatedly, over time.   
  
Peter’s tongue felt heavy. He wanted to ask where he’d been to leave marks like that; the wolf only wanted to get up and lick them. He gave in to the urge just enough to sit up, moving free of the sheets.   
  
“I didn’t entirely tell you the truth, last night,” Peter said. It was unwise to try to explain himself now, maybe. Utterly unplanned, a product of sleep and warmth and want.   
  
Chris huffed, a low and soft laugh that didn’t sound like his anger from the night before, too rounded. Easy, like it had been after they’d fallen onto the bed after the second time, and he’d told Peter to call him Chris. “What a surprise.”  
  
“It wasn’t Brent’s scent I caught—it was yours.”   
  
Chris paused with his shirt in his hands, his back still to Peter. He could see the blades of his shoulders, the hints of his ribs. Peter wanted to take him back to bed and order breakfast; he wanted to scent the tempting curve of his throat until he could smell nothing else there but the two of them. The need was so strong it made his mouth water.   
  
“You have a thing for humans who could kill you? You wouldn’t be the first; if you were I’d be out of a job.”  
  
“I can’t say a human who thinks he could kill me isn’t interesting—but no, I didn’t come after you for your wolfsbane.” Peter’s nails flexed out, then back, barely pricking at the sheets. It settled his nerves, though why his stomach felt so uneasy wasn’t something he was ready to examine. They’d had a good time, the night before. He had at least a shot in the dark to hope that the truth would be well received—knowing as much as he seemed to know, surely Chris would be ready to accept him as an alpha, even if he didn’t want the bite. Even if he wasn’t ready to be his mate. “I could smell it long before I saw you. You smell like…pack land, like nothing and no one I’ve ever met, and it took me off guard. I didn’t expect to find you in trouble, so when I thought I had—“  
  
Chris’ shoulders slumped, his disappointment visible all the way down through the jerky movements of his arms as he yanked his shirt on, the tight shake of his head. “Come on, Peter,” he said, his voice low and bitter. Hearing his name said like that in Chris’ voice hurt, all force with no affection. “You can do better than that.”

“I’m serious.”  
  
“So am I. If I got paid extra for every werewolf who told me I smelled like their mate, I’d already have a license, a Range Rover and an apartment downtown. If you want me to stay just say you want me to stay—it won’t work, but don’t lie about it.” With his back to Peter, still, he sat down on the edge of the bed, pulling on his boots.   
  
The heavy thud of the second one against the hardwood jarred Peter into action and out of bed, circling around to crouch before him. He hadn’t bothered to grab his clothes but then, it wouldn’t seem strange to Chris that he was comfortable in his own skin. Not for a boy so used to werewolves.   
  
“I’m not lying. I shouldn’t be surprised that other people have, but I’m not trying to..._collect _you; I know what happened last night—“  
  
“Yeah, and so do I.” It was dismissive, distant. Peter was going to lose him; that much was clear—no matter what Peter said, he was going to insist on being let go. He would leave here without cementing any kind of bond between the two of them, or any kind of promise to try this toegether, and there was nothing Peter would be able to do to stop him, short of kidnapping.   
  
In his desperation he couldn’t say it didn’t cross his mind, but he let the go almost as quickly. He didn’t want to make him stay. He needed him to _want _to. Taking Peter as his mate had to be voluntary; he had to need it for himself. It was arrogant, maybe, but Peter had never imagined convincing his mate to want him would be hard. 

Chris’ eyes met his, hard and closed off. “You still think I need protection.”  
  
“I’d like to be in a position to protect you if you need it—that doesn’t mean you’ll always need it. You would have been fine last night without me.”

“I don’t need it at all. I’m not looking for a pack,” Chris said. His eyes fell to his hands, double checking the laces of his boots. For a minute, he looked younger than 20. “I’m not looking for a boyfriend either. I don’t date, not yet. Maybe someday, but not now. It doesn’t work.”

“That means you’ve tried.”

“Yeah. It was a mistake. I appreciate you paying me for—“

“It was the least I could do.” The extra $300 he’d slipped in the envelope while Chris slept was, also, the least he could do—he’d planned to call it a gift, if things went right. Based on how they were going then, if he got called out on it, he’d call it an advance. 

Peter’s hand hovered just short of grasping Chris’ wrist, eager to hold on to him, equally afraid of grabbing too tight. The wolf wanted a tight grip, and his face buried against the inside of Chris’ elbow, spreading his scent there on soft skin that would taste like salt and sex if he opened his mouth and tasted him again. 

“You didn’t have to offer me work, but you did. Just let me thank you.” 

“Let me ask you another question you won’t have to say no to, then,” Peter said, even though it pained him. His throat was tight, his ribs sharp when he breathed in the scent of the boy that thousands of years of instinct told him was his. His, and yet not his to keep. His, and there was no telling when he’d touch him again. Greedy, he couldn’t resist wrapping his fingers slow and careful around Chris’ wrist. His thumb rubbed gently across the back of his hand, feeling vein and bone, memorizing.

He wanted the chance to know this body as well as he knew his own. He wanted to never let him go. 

“Tell me I can see you again. You can’t tell me you don’t have repeat customers.”

“I do.” It was hesitant, and wary, but it wasn’t a denial. 

“Alright, then I can be a customer.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

The wolf scrabbled forcefully for control, and Peter let it have its way, just a little—his eyes flashed red, and stayed long enough to catch Christopher’s. The intensity that passed between them when their eyes met was enough to make him shake. “Then you do feel something—or you think I’m dangerous.”

“All wolves are dangerous,” Chris whispered. His wrist was still in Peter’s grip, loosely held. He could have pulled away ten times, by then, and hadn’t tried. “You are dangerous, but I’m not afraid of you.”

“You shouldn’t be. I wouldn’t hurt you.” It was, really, a ridiculous understatement. He would have killed for him the night before; he certainly wouldn’t hurt him. With a soft squeeze of his wrist, Peter tried once more, his murmur soft as silk. “Let me give you my number. It’ll be up to you. If you want to see me, you can call.”

Chris waited almost too long, but then he was pulling his phone out, and the pressure on Peter’s chest loosened. “I’ll take your number, as a _client_.”

“As a client,” Peter echoed, confirming, even though it felt as palatable on his tongue and against the roof of his mouth as the edge of a blade. 


End file.
